


Legally Insane

by nuclear_taste



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I love this one:, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Psychopaths In Love, Rape, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-03-21 12:41:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3692697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nuclear_taste/pseuds/nuclear_taste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the era of electroconvulsive therapy, Arthur is convicted of the murder of his family and imprisoned in an insane asylum. There he is treated by the handsome and charismatic Dr. Jones, who may be more disturbed and deranged than his own patients. Rewritten and republished.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prisoner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If you wanted to die then you wouldn’t be here, alive, feeling sorry for yourself.”

This fic is based off an RP published on FFN & Ao3 by my RP partner. It was taken down, so I put it back up! But during the editing process I accidentally rewrote it (oops). To those of you who read Legally Insane before, meat of the story is intact but you will notice significant changes.

Thanks to my beta and everyone who gave me feedback!

Trigger warnings: death, murder, rape, mentions of child abuse and molestation, medical torture, mental illness, drug use, manipulation/conditioning, homophobic slurs.

* * *

 

Arthur couldn't lie to himself any longer. He wasn't going to be okay. Nothing was ever going to be okay. They had taken his freedom and locked him away in a lunatic asylum. There was no hope for escape and no-one, not even he, thought he deserved a second chance.

He lay on his cot, staring up at the ceiling. After he was admitted, they put him on suicide watch. They locked him in a small padded room, four walls of rubber cushions surrounding a bare mattress and one open toilet. The room was stripped to the dry bones of base needs. He couldn't help but liken the miserable sparseness to solitary confinement in prison. How many days had they held him in here? There was no sun or clock to tell the time. He could only count by the number of meager meals they gave him, three times a day without fail.

He barely remembered the ride here. When they came for him in prison, he had been in solitary confinement, waiting out his time after another botched suicide attempt. Four men in white scrubs barged into his cell and before he knew what was happening, they were forcing him down and pinning him into the mattress. He struggled like a rabbit caught in the snare, while at the corner of his eye a doctor lingered in the doorway, waiting on the orderlies fighting to restrain him. Finally, when he gave in to exhaustion, the man pushed forward with a syringe poised between his fingers. A glimpse at the liquid squirting from the needle charged him into another desperate struggle but they were too strong. He might as well have been a witness to his own forced surrender as he watched the thick needle plunge into his arm. The last thing he recalled, as he dizzied under the sedative's spell, was the doctor mentioning Moorfields Hospital to him, something about a transfer.

When Arthur woke up, he was in this room. He had not left it since.

He figured at least four days had passed. He tried prying information out of the orderly doling out food through a slatted hole in the door but all he got for his troubles was a startling slam on the grated window and a fierce bark to shut up.

They took away his clothes. He saw no reason behind it besides humiliation. After all, there was no point in making a noose if there was nothing to hang himself with. Luckily, there was no draft, but the cell was as deathly cold as a catacomb. He didn't know how long he could last without any clothes for protection. He was only sixteen but it didn't seem to matter to them. He wondered if he'd been better off in prison.

It was unnaturally quiet, with only the drip-drip-dripping of condensation from somewhere outside the corridor. He brought a hand up and traced the burn scar covering almost half of his face. The raised lump of scar tissue just recently healed into a bright, fleshy pink that would eventually fade to a bloodless white. He spent most of his time running his fingers over its strange, taut smoothness, so deviant to his otherwise soft, peach-fuzzy skin.

Arthur hated being alone, left with only his thoughts for company. When it became too quiet, the voices in his head crowded up the space normal noise should have filled. His thoughts couldn't move an inch without bumping into all the would-haves and could-haves in the world, giving life to limitless possibilities that may have prevented what happened back then. His agonies raced like a dog chasing its tail in the mud. Like clockwork they always and without fail circulated back to his family. It devastated him knowing that he would never see them again. But he couldn't, not after…

The iron clang of a key interrupted his thoughts. He sat up and folded his knees to his chest as the heavy door swung outward. Out sauntered a tall man with athletic build, he had light features that glowed with a healthy pallor. He leaned against the wall and casually swung a large, beige jacket clinking with belts over his shoulder. He wore a manic grin that reminded Arthur of a child pulling the wings off a fly.

"Kirkland. You done with your pity party?" He chucked a surgical gown at Arthur and nodded his chin to the wall. "You know the drill. Same as prison."

Arthur held out the crumpled gown by its collar. He hoped the orderly would spare him a small mercy and look away but he wasn't having any of it. Curling into himself, Arthur lowered his head and bit his lip, slowly pulling the shift over his head. He stood and obediently pressed his hands on the far wall, legs spread shoulder-length apart. He stared ahead as the footfalls advanced from behind, he heard the jacket flop to the ground.

Arthur expected to be handcuffed. He didn't expect to have his arms wrenched behind his back and then forced face-down on the ground. His chest took the brunt of the impact, jolting out a surprised cough. He struggled out of a residue reflex but they'd taken most of the fight out of him.

The orderly had thrown him on top of the jacket and was now shoving Arthur's arms through the heavy sleeves, crossing them over his chest in a self-hug. These sleeves were fastened by belts behind his back, including a crotch strap preventing the jacket from riding up. The orderly gave the belts a hearty tug before patting it in satisfaction.

"Sorry, kid. Rules are rules. Get up." With a grunt,he hauled Arthur up one-handed. Holding the belt strap at the base of Arthur's neck,the orderly steered him out of the room and down the damp corridor.

"You're in Moorfields Hospital, long-term care facility for the legally insane. I'm Mathias. You'll be in my custodial care." Mathias kept a sturdy hand as he herded the boy down the corridor. "Right now you're off to your psych eval."

Mathias handled Arthur like a dog. He used the belts like a leash to steer him left and right and practically knocked him forward with his knuckles when he straggled. It was all Arthur could do to keep up with Mathias's pace. The food they were giving him was nothing more than food scraps, and after a week with hardly anything to eat he was running on fumes.

"Just do whatever I say and you'll get along fine." Mathias hummed a bright tune.

Arthur kept his head down and his mouth shut. He didn't grace Mathias with a response, only watched his bare feet hit the cold concrete floor. Petty authorities like Mathias were all talk. Oh, he didn't doubt the orderly would beat him bloody if he crossed the line but that was in fair play. Mathias could be worse, much worse. It was the psychiatrist evaluation that troubled Arthur. He'd never been to a head doctor before. He didn't know what to expect. He only hoped that they stopped sedating him. The feeling brought him back to his blackouts and it was the last place he ever wanted to revisit.

They took a concrete stairway up. Mathias fussed with set of porter's keys before opening the door to the ground floor of the sanitarium. Mathias steered Arthur down yet another corridor.

Now that Arthur wasn't drugged, he could have a proper look around. The first thing he noticed was how much warmer it was. Daylight broke across the tiled floor. He squinted against the blinding brightness after having spent a week in the dark and stopped shivering. Arthur looked out the windows, the weather was typical London autumn, gloomy and grey, but even if he had to see it through barred windows,it was more than he could ask for. Across the green was a quaint chapel, the sun was just beginning to dip behind it's steepled roof. Further out was a vegetable plot and what looked like a greenhouse.

As they walked further down the wing,the tiled floor turned to carpet. The soft give under Arthur's toes was heavenly. A tentative hope blossomed in his chest. This place might not be so bad after all. Arthur was almost convinced. Placards with names began appearing on the doors, they had arrived at the offices.

Down the corridor a man exited one of the doctor offices, locking the door behind him. He looked up to see the two approaching. When Arthur realized the doctor was headed their way he hid his face, ducking his head so that his unkempt hair hid the scar.

"Good evening, Dr. Edelstein." Mathias pulled Arthur back as he stopped to greet the approaching man.

"Good evening." Edelstein's accent made Arthur's eyebrows shoot to his hairline. He could have easily mistaken him for a German were it not for his surname. The memory of the war was still fresh in peoples' minds and the country was less than forgiving of Germans, even its British-born citizens. "Who is this?" Edelstein motioned to Arthur.

"Do you remember the Kirkland kid?" Mathias clapped Arthur's shoulder. "From the court trial? He's in ward two. He's one of Jones'."

"Are you certain? Not ward three?" Edelstein's thin lips pressed in a firm white line, he turned and paid Arthur a short once-over. "Hmph. Welcome to Moorfields Hospital, Mr. Kirkland. I am Dr. Edelstein, your ward's psychiatrist." He turned to Mathias. "If you will excuse me, I have some matters to attend to." He cut Mathias a curt nod before briskly walking off.

Shaking his head with a smile Mathias turned to Arthur. "Let's go."

They finally stopped at one of the doors. Arthur stared at the placard hanging slightly askew and the name in engraved, brassy print. Alfred F. Jones, M.D. Even though his arms were bound, Arthur felt impulsed to run his fingers across the meticulous notches.

Mathias gave a hearty knock. There was a short pause before a blithe voice called from the other side.

"Door's unlocked." The orderly opened the door like a butler would to a guest, dropping to a mock bow and sweeping his hand into the room, bidding Arthur to enter. Arthur scowled and walked in with what dignity one had strapped in a straitjacket, barefoot and dirty.

His eyes onto an empty chair facing a large desk. He dropped into it without ceremony. Years of principal's offices and the bureaucratic setup told him that was where he needed to be. He was curious about the face that belonged to the name and he turned his head just slightly to peek through the curtain of his fringe.

The man had to be in his late twenties. He was tall and lean, with clear eyes shining bright behind his glasses. His cornflower hair was tamed to a side parting, save for a stubborn cowlick sprouting at the hairline. Arthur was surprised. Dr. Jones was impressively young to hold the prestige of owning his own office. In that moment their eyes caught and Jones seemed to read Arthur's mind.

He smiled. And he had a gorgeous smile, with immaculate teeth and endearing dimples. It carried a special charm that put others at ease. Dr. Jones was handsome-and he knew it.

Arthur realized he was staring and jerked his eyes determinedly forward.

Jones turned to Mathias. "Thanks, Mathias. We won't be having any trouble so I don't think we'll need the restraints. Right, Arthur?"

Arthur hesitated, then nodded.

Mathias's eyebrows shot to his hairline. "If you're sure. But if he goes psycho it's on you."

Dr. Jones laughed. "I'll take the chance."

Mathias shrugged one shoulder and untied Arthur's jacket. Arthur immediately felt lighter when it was taken off of him. "I'll be right outside." He threw a lazy wave over his shoulder and closed the door behind him.

A silence stretched in the hush of the room.

The aching squeak of the chair was followed by Jones leaning forward on his desk.

"Mr. Kirkland." Arthur didn't look up. "My name is Dr. Jones. Call me Jones. I'll be your doctor from here on out. My job is to make sure you're safe and your needs are met. I'm also here to help you through your issues and find some peace with yourself and what you did."

Arthur continued ignoring him. He had nothing against Dr. Jones. He felt no ill will against the man's efforts. The man was trying to help him; he got that. He was safe and he would be treated much better than if he was in prison. Arthur had a vague feeling that he should be grateful but it wouldn't surface.

Jones rounded the desk to halfway sit in front of Arthur. Even with his downcast gaze, Arthur couldn't avoid Jones' polished Oxfords gleaming up at him. Arthur tensed, ready to bolt, but Jones made no further movement, letting the silence stretch. Arthur held stubborn and wouldn't look up… but he wouldn't move, either. The proximity made him uncomfortable. He was convinced Jones must be doing it on purpose. From the corner of his eye Jones pulled out a fountain pen from his coat pocket and uncapped it.

Jones took the nib of his pen and used it to firmly tilt Arthur's chin up.

"Ah. That's better." Jones smiled as he seized Arthur's eyes, blue on green. Arthur's eyes widened and his breath hitched. The nib was poking in the unprotected flesh under his chin.

He forced Arthur's chin further up. He pressed the tip harder, practically jabbing the boy's throat and stretching his chin uncomfortably upward. "You have such a lovely face. Burn notwithstanding." He chuckled.

Arthur could stand Jones treating him like a rag doll but mocking his scar was too much. Arthur snatched the fountain pen with surprising speed. Then he practically tackled Jones to the desk and thrust it dangerously close to his neck. His eyes were hard and he shook with rage. "Shut your damn mouth," he hissed through his clenched teeth.

Jones easily yielded to Arthur's sudden violence by pressing straight back on the desk. His eyebrows arched in surprise but if Arthur thought it was out of fear he was mistaken. He burst out laughing. "You talked!"

Arthur's eyes pulsed wide and Jones took the opening to snatch the pen back. "I should be more careful leaving sharp things around for people to hurt themselves." He made a flashy show of twirling the pen between his fingers before pocketing it inside his coat. He reached behind himself and smoothly swept up a manila folder on the desk. It was Arthur's file, holding his transfer papers and official profile. Arthur noticed pages and pages of handwritten notes, cinched with newspaper clippings dating all the way back to his debut in the news. Dr. Jones flipped through the pages too fast to actually read anything.

"We've come a long way since the Middle Ages. Once they would have called you a witch and burned you at the stake if you came out saying something possessed you and made you kill your parents. Thank God we're not that ignorant any more." Jones laughed.

"You're quite the celebrity, you know. Being on the radio and all. Your trial was broadcast across the country. Everyone heard you were tried and found guilty of the triple homicide of your family."

Arthur was boiling in his seat. He realized he had lost by talking and Jones had intentionally provoked him by bringing up his scar. Like a fool he had taken the bait. "I'd rather be stoned to death instead of living in this Hell." He made sure his hair obscured his scar from Jones. "What do you want, Jones?" He pointedly omitted his professional title.

Jones gave Arthur no pleasure in falling for the schoolboy taunt. Instead, Jones went on reading Arthur's file. "Oh, I'm just interviewing you to see how crazy you are," he quipped flippantly. He blissfully ignored the creak of Arthur's fists tightening on the chair arms. "I ask you questions, that's all." He scribbled some notes on the margins of the pages.

"I'm taking a look at your files and I reeeeaaallllyyy don't think you fit the bill for a psychopath. Maybe it's just because I have a soft spot for sob stories-and boy do we have a juicy one here." Jones winked. "A sad, lonely sixteen year old boy charged with the triple homicide of his father, mother and little brother."

"It was you who transferred me here. I was supposed to go to a prison ward but you took me here." Arthur was floored as the realization dawned on him.

"Guilty as charged. So tell me!" Dr. Jones folding his hands in his lap. Arthur was still reeling from shock. "I want to hear your side of the story. Arthur Kirkland, age sixteen, the first son of a family from old money. Your father was a landowner and your mother was an heiress. Your family was well respected in society and in church. Those are the facts." He perched his chin on his hands and leaned on his elbows. The light glinted over his glasses. "But the truth is," Jones crooned, "you were your father's fourth son, but his first legitimate son, the first one conceived in wedlock. Your father was a chronic gambler and your mother was a lush. The new tax laws were putting your father under water and he were losing money. He beat you bloody, you and your little brother and your mother."

"Th-This is highly inappropriate! Sh-Shouldn't you be asking why I tried to kill myself?!" Arthur leaned away into the chair hunching his shoulders defensively. "This—this isn't a journal interview! You're a doctor! You should care about how I'm feeling now!"

"I'm not interested at all," Jones explained casually. Arthur sputtered in outrage. "If you wanted to die then you wouldn't be here, alive, feeling sorry for yourself." He leaned forward and tucked Arthur's hair behind his ear. "I'm interested in why you failed to kill yourself."

"Don't touch me!" Arthur shrieked, slapping Jones's hand away. He wretchedly clawed his hair back over his face.

That Jones had masterminded Arthur's transfer disturbed him. He was thankful to the judge whose pity overturned the terms of his imprisonment from a maximum security facility to a segregation unit,,but he didn't ask to be transferred to a civilian ward. What kind of person was Dr. Jones to supersede a legal sentence and bring him to here instead? It didn't feel right for Jones to be so invested in his welfare, even if he was as eccentric as he made himself out to be.

Jones pressed on blithely: "According to your trial report, the house servant witnessed your carrying a petrol can into the house right before the fire." Jones cocked his head to the side. "She said you were fighting with your parents hours earlier. Your father was yelling and he hit you."

"I-I stood up before a jury of my peers and told them the truth. I loved my family. I'd never do anything to hurt them. It's just a coincidence that I survived that damn fire." Arthur wanted to leave. He didn't want to be here anymore. He was sick of Dr. Jones.

"Maybe you loved your family but didn't you hate them, too? You said you were possessed and don't remember but aren't you using the same excuse as you always did? Teachers testified that when you got into trouble for delinquency, you also said you didn't remember anything and someone must have made you do it." Jones ran the smooth, cold fountain pen over his lips.

A cold sweat broke on Arthur's skin, making him shiver. He wanted this to sound wrong to him. "I don't know what you're talking about," he choked. "I just don't remember. Once my peers witnessed me attack an upperclassman for mocking me. They saw me crush his windpipe with my bare hands. But I don't remember any of it! So I thought, if I don't remember, wasn't I possessed? It's the only possible explanation." Arthur's shoulders slumped hopelessly. He knew there was something wrong with him. There was a madness inside him that he couldn't explain. It prevented him from making friends and pushed everyone away. People called him a freak but they were wrong. He was a monster.

"It happened more than once, Arthur." Jones checked Arthur's file. "Several times throughout your academic career. Are you saying you don't remember throwing even one punch?"

"I already told you I don't know what you're talking about. I don't see how this is relevant," Arthur snapped. He shifted uneasily in his chair. He glared through the curtain of his fringe but when Jones only matched Arthur's ire with calm regard Arthur couldn't take the clinical coldness any more. His gaze crumpled under the weight of Jones' scrutiny, he dropped his head in defeat. "You don't believe me." It was no surprise. No one ever believed him, not even his lawyer who was supposed to defend him.

"I believe you."

Arthur's head snapped up.

"I believe you," Jones repeated. "I think you had no idea what was going on during the events leading up to the house fire. Or the times at school. And the countless others times people accused you of doing things you don't remember doing. I bet no one ever believed you. Except I believe you." Jones loomed over him and captured his chin.

"Everyone thinks you murdered your father and mother and little brother. Everyone thinks you are evil. Even your elder brothers hate you. No-one loves or cares about you. Even your brothers abandoned you. Do you understand? No one cares about you except for me. I believe you, Arthur."

Arthur's mouth hung agape. I believe you. Nobody ever told him they believed him. Not even his attorney.

Arthur knew everyone hated him. That was the burden he lived with every day. How could he forget the fire in their eyes that day in the court house? But he also shamefully, secretly held out on hope that he could be wrong. Denial was the animal instinct for survival and it kept Arthur alive by buffering him from the truth. It was a private space in his head where he could hide. But when Dr. Jones said it out loud,the truth materialized in the real world. The truth was out and there was nowhere to hide. Everyone hated him.

Arthur felt hot tears dripping down his face. Dr. Jones was right. Nobody loved him. Nobody cared. The world shattered around him, he steeped forward and folded into himself. He buried his face into his hands and began to sob. He cried as pitifully as a child, they wracked his entire body until he was curling up as small as he could.

He let it all out, a lifetime of pain and sorrow, the utter loneliness of a boy who will never have the chance to show his worth to the world.

Jones cracked into a face-splitting smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the original, Gilbert and Ludwig were the orderly and doctor. I was rather obnoxious in my attempt to keep them in the fic but I had to be honest with myself. Two Germans working for the British government after WWII? No.
> 
> Anyway! Drop me a comment and tell me what you think! Any readers of the original version? I hope mine delivers :)
> 
>  
> 
>  Moorfields Hospital. Not a real hospital, but Moorfields in London was once the site of an infamous asylum.
> 
> Solitude rooms. AKA "padded rooms" or "rubber rooms." Synonymous with solitary confinement in the prison system. These rooms were cushioned so patients couldn't knock their heads in. Patients were thrown in for a number of reasons (suicide risk, delinquency, pissing orderlies off) to gear them towards compliancy. Yes, at the time patients were (illegally) stripped buck naked, under the attitude that patients could hang themselves with their clothes/blankets. It's a rare practice in the industrialized world today, except for the US which can't seem to get its act together.
> 
> Orderlies. Assistants of psychiatrist nurses that have since become obsolete. Orderlies had no formal education in mental health, they did the grunt work and their disciplinary measures were cruel (look up "thump therapy"). They were actually called attendants in the UK but I use "orderly" because it's more identifiable and is not a surviving term we use today.


	2. Assault on Identity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sanity simply means how well you and I get along with everyone else. It's about fitting in with the rest of them. If you insult peoples' morals and offend their sensibilities, you end up in one of these places."

 

Jones tossed a handkerchief in Arthur's lap before returning to his desk. He reclined in his seat, propping his feet up and neatly lacing his fingers over his stomach. Arthur was still crying. Jones watched, his face plain and dry of expression. As the minutes wore on, his attention wandered to a vague point on the ceiling.

"I think we're done for the day," he said. "Let's take some time to reflect on our conversation. Next time, I want you to tell me about these blackouts you've had." Jones's eyes drifted back to Arthur. When their eyes met, he nodded his chin towards the door. "Be a good boy so I can see you again, hm?"

Arthur's mouth dropped open in shock. Jones was kicking him out? But he hadn't misheard; Jones was getting up and walking towards him.

"Can't I stay?" He sounded small and pathetic, even to himself.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Kirkland, but I have other things to do."

Arthur's eyes dragged down to his lap. He stared numbly at Jones' handkerchief before using it to dry his eyes and wipe his nose with a small sniffle. He slowly stood, light-headed from the crying.

Dr Jones walked Arthur to the door. He held it open with much civility. Down the corridor was Mathias dozing in the waiting chair. At the sound of the door opening, he blinked awake and yawned hugely. A wide grin splayed over Jones's face, his eyebrows hiking up as Mathias approached. "Thanks for sticking around, Mathias. How's the wife?"

Mathias's lips twisted into a grin. "Lucy is doing just fine. We have a baby on the way."

"That's wonderful!"

"We've been trying for a while." Mathias strapped Arthur back into the straitjacket. "I hope it's a boy. I've always wanted a son."

"You will be great father. There's no doubt in my mind." Jones leaned against the doorway, watching. "Don't be too rough with him, he's had a rough week."

"I'll think about it. Right, Kirkland?"

Arthur turned to say goodbye to Dr. Jones but the last thing he saw was the doctor's warm smile before the door was shut in his face. Behind the door, muffled footsteps shuffled away.

The office building they left was one of three large structures facing each other like a triad. A road lead to the main gate, with a separate pedestrian pathway cutting through the center grounds. The staff buildings was only one unit of an enormous network making up Moorfields Hospital.

Arthur looked around in reserved awe. He realized the window he looked out of only framed a scenic view of the quaint church, a small plot of land like a living painting. Moorfields Hospital itself was an abominable landscape, a self-sustained entity independent of the world, made up of soulless architecture lacking any sentimentality and imagination.

The asylum went on for acres, ending at the high brick walls confining its residents within. There was a main gate of black iron wide enough to accommodate several automobiles. It opened to a road with a porter's house stationed next to it. Arthur recognized a boiler and generator house where the electricity, heat and water was controlled. There were so many buildings and storage houses, he couldn't fathom what all their uses were for. He smelled baked bread and as they made for the wards they passed a considerable vegetable plot patients were tending to.

Arthur was awed. How on Earth could a hospital of this magnitude run so soon after the war? England and the greater part of the world was in a state of financial ruin; the NHS couldn't possibly have wasted their funds into a state-run asylum where the chances of its patients leaving was slim-to-none. He wondered where Moorfields was getting all of its money.

The building they entered was the largest of them all, even larger than a general hospital. Mathias called it the main hospital block, where Arthur would be staying at one of the men's wards, but first they were going to the receiving ward to be showered and outfitted. The shower was nothing more than a hose down of icy water that left him shivering and with blue lips. He was given starched patient wear: a loose white shirt, white trousers and white slip-on shoes. He hid Jones' kerchief in his balled-up fist. After he was dressed, Mathias strapped him back into the straitjacket.

Mathias sat him down on a stool and crouched behind him. Arthur was still shivering as Mathias pushed his hair back from his face. He was unaware of what was going on until there was a sharp snip, followed by a chunk of damp hair falling into his lap. Arthur panicked, he tried squirming away but Mathias held him still by a stinging fistful of hair. Arthur's vision blurred with tears as Mathias hacked off his hair by the handful, baring his his face and his scar. When Mathias finished he was left with an uneven crop of hair one inch around his head.

He was finally ready for the men's wards. The mens' wards was its own hospital block, segregated from the women's wing. As they took the stairs, something sour began brewing in Arthur's stomach. He expected something like prison that crowded its occupants into cells and never let them out, so it came as an underwhelming shock to find the ward was nothing like it.

Mathias opened the door to the ward. Arthur was surprised to find it looked like a normal hospital with a nurse's station and wide sitting area. There were smaller, private rooms and a corridor leading farther into the building. Standing against the wall with a full view of the waiting room was another orderly. He had Nordic features like Mathias with a resting face naturally stoic and cold, his crossed arms making the meat of his muscles bulge. Mathias abandoned Arthur like a child dropping his toy for a shinier thing and headed straight for the stoic orderly. Arthur felt very foolish standing in the entrance as the patients and staff stared at him.

The patients were gathered in the wide common area. They sat at tables, playing cards or talking. When Arthur entered they all turned their curious gaze on the newcomer. The attention caused him to seize up; they were staring at his scar, doubtlessly thinking he was a freak. It felt much like a walk of shame as he crossed the room and sat at a vacant table.

As he waited for the patients to lose their interest, Arthur occupied himself by rubbing his thumb over the synthetic texture of Dr. Jones' kerchief, hidden inside the sleeve of the jacket. He didn't know what to do so he sat quietly by himself and cast furtive glances around. He was the only one in a straitjacket everyone else was lounging in their starched hospital clothes. He didn't know if he wanted someone to come over or not; he just wanted the to stop staring.

A patient rose from one of the tables, Arthur watching warily as he approached him with a slight sway of his hips. It was a young man just a few years his senior. A cigarette dangled lazily between his lips as he leaned his hip against the table, crossing his arms.

"How lovely to see a new face around here. My name is Francis, and who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?"

Fantastic. A Frenchman.

"It's Arthur," Arthur deadpanned.

"Arthur." Francis nodded. "How about I give you a little tour? I think you will appreciate learning the ins and outs of this place from a fellow inhabitant." His eyes flicked pointedly at the orderlies. "You wouldn't want to learn the hard way."

Arthur chanced a sidelong glance. Mathias was holding up a one-sided conversation that he couldn't hear, with the taller man throwing out a few disinterested grunts of acknowledgment as he kept his attention on the patients.

"Fine. Let's go." He rose. Francis swept ahead of him, leading him out of the day space and into the corridor on the opposite side of the entrance.

"First thing's first. Patients do not touch staff or each other."

Arthur nodded, glancing into each room they passed down the hall. The ward was designed to cover all needs for permanent living. There were dorm-like bedrooms and water closets, a dining room and art room bereft of any musical instruments or crafts. The locked rooms, Francis explained, belonged to hospital staff. Arthur noticed one marked as Edelstein's office, the lights off and window slats drawn shut.

Arthur realized they were being followed. He looked back; it was the other orderly, who hung back a few paces like a chaperone. It put him one edge; he was sick of being parented over like a child. Francis, however, didn't seemed bothered by this as he led them into one of the large bedrooms.

When Arthur heard the tell-tale scruff of footsteps following them inside he spun on the orderly and yelled:

"Why are you following me around?!"

"You're one-on-one." It was the first time the orderly spoke. His voice was as bland as his expression.

"What the hell is one-on-one?"

"Staff-patient ratio. Staff keeps an eye on patients acting up."

"You think I can do anything in this Frankenstein suit?!"

He shrugged. "Policy. Not supposed to make sense."

Francis flapped a dismissive hand in the orderly's direction. "Do not concern yourself with Berwald, you will get used to his voyeuristic ways. So." He flipped a luminous flash of hair over his shoulder. He took a leisurely drag of his cigarette, pulled it from his lips as plume of blue smoke curled around his Cheshire cat grin. "What are you here for?"

So, this was his aim. Francis' tour was just a ruse to be the first to shave the gossip off of him. Well, it wasn't going to happen.

Arthur tersely shook his head. "It's none of your business."

Francis tutted, flicking ash. "If it will make you feel better, I will tell you my reason: I committed a crime of passion. I fell into a forbidden love!"

Arthur rolled his eyes heavenward. Leave it to a Frenchman to romanticize a crime. Between him and Berwald, he just about had enough. "I'm out of here." Arthur turned on his heel and walked away.

"You scoff but it is true!" Francis called after him, fingers spread over his heart in operatic melodrama.

Arthur cast a sharp frown over his shoulder. "And? They locked you away for falling in love?"

"Ah, but it was a forbidden love." Arthur rolled his eyes again. "No, Arthur, you do not understand me." Arthur found the way in which he lowered his voice was inexplicably unnerving, like fingers running against the grain of a velvet chair. "It was with a man."

"What?! That's disgusting!" Arthur scooted farther away, his heart pounding.

Francis only grinned in amusement. "Oh ho? Acting high-and-mighty are we? You're not fooling anyone," he purred.

"What the devil is that supposed to mean?!"

"Tour's over." Berwald cut in between them, eyes like ice. "Back to the day room."

Francis waved a dismissive hand, traipsing away. "I was just about to leave. _Au revoir, Monsieur Arthur_."

Arthur gave his retreating back the nastiest glower. He followed after Berwald and as they passed by one of the windows Berwald stopped, looking out. "When you get grounds privileges and the weather lets up, you can go for a walk," he said.

Arthur linked his fingers through the metal grating and looked out. Night had fallen but the stars were hidden by the city's light pollution. When he thought about it, it was the same sky he would be looking up at if he were at home or anywhere else in England. He sighed, shoulder slumping. "It doesn't seem all that bad."

At lights out, the patients were sent to bed. They all retreated to their dorm rooms, with the exception of Arthur, who was only half-surprised when he was detoured to the single room. No one needed to explain that he was was still under surveillance. Berwald gave him an ultimatum: he either kept the straitjacket on or had his his clothes taken away again. He chose the jacket.

For the first time in a long time he had a full stomach and a warm bed to sleep in.

* * *

The next day found Arthur back in Jones' office.

When he returned for his visit, Dr. Jones had the same sparkle in his eye as he greeted Arthur, hand extended out for a handshake. Arthur blushed while taking it, remembering the no-contact rule. Jones was breaking policy for him. He asked Arthur how he slept last night. Arthur lied, saying he never slept better.

He hadn't forgotten about what happened yesterday. The slight about his face was still fresh in his mind. Jones had duped him into breaking down. With just a word and a gesture, he was whipped into a crazed violence that was just as abruptly stalked by an abhorrent self-pity. And yet, Dr. Jones said he believed him and there was something in the shadow of Jones' smile that second-guessed his own skepticism towards the doctor. He decided he would carefully watch Dr. Jones.

Jones was giving him a physical examination. He pried open Arthur's eyelids and shined a penlight in. Arthur shifted rigidly in his chair, uncomfortable with Jones so close to his face. He felt shy, especially with Jones so near that he could see his eyes. This close and he could see the flecks of gold in his blue irises, the blond tips of his eyelashes. He could feel his warm breath, tinted with cigarettes and coffee.

Jones pressed the cold stethoscope bell under his shirt. "Breathe for me."

Arthur pulled in long breath, held it and breathed out. Dr. Jones moved the cold metal bell and he breathed again. Jones touched him with warm and gentle doctor's hands--there were no lingering touches or unnecessary wandering of hands. As the gentle handling wore on his muscles relaxed. The sunny doctor with him now was as contrary as the one he met yesterday. It almost made him forget anything ever happend.

As Jones moved away, he took the chance to look around his office. Dr. Jones had a smooth leather couch with a matching chair facing it. There was a door leading into a side room. Behind the desk towered an impressive library filled entirely of academic literature and medical books. They covered every square inch, from floor to ceiling. Arthur made out a few titles: _Internal Records of Medicine and General Practice Clinics, United States Armed Forces Medical Journal, Thérapie, New England Journal of Medicine_ …and those were just journals. The vast majority on display were untouched, glossy and with pristine spines.

There was an encyclopedia-sized journal lying on Jones' desk, open to an article: _A new vegetative (autonomic) stabilizer by H. Laborit._

Arthur's palms began to sweat. Jones returned laying out a tray of empty vials and a syringe.

"Have you met Dr. Edelstein yet?" With expert ease he found his vein and began drawing blood.

"This morning, for ten minutes." Arthur looked away from his arm and shot Jones a nonplussed glare. "He made me draw a clock."

Jones laughed. "Glad to see he's not wasting time." Arthur grimaced at the bad pun. Jones switched out for another vial.

"He said he will not see me. He said I was your subject."

"Mmhmm."

"Why? Everyone else sees Edelstein. Why am I different?"

"He doesn't treat patients like you, ones with a history of violent behavior."

Arthur went quiet. Jones put the last blood sample in the stand-up tray and stowed it in a cupboard. Jones looked at him and chuckled.

"Oh, don't get sore over it. His schooling is laughably asinine and sentimental. No science behind it whatsoever. And that's exactly how they want it, so there's no way to observe it and prove it doesn't work. I, on the other hand, am bringing in a whole new era of psychiatric treatment."

"What's that?"

Dr. Jones set a glass bottle on the table. It was filled with clear solution with the white label facing away. He set about screwing on another syringe with a thicker needle and plunged it inside, drawing it up to the halfway mark. Arthur's heart skipped as he squirted the air out.

Jones went to grab for his hand. Arthur jerked it back.

"Now, Mr. Kirkand…"

"I'm not letting you do anything until you tell me what that is."

Jones breathed an exasperated sigh. He held the syringe at eye level. "Chlorpromazine hydrocloride." He smiled at Arthur's dubious exasperation. "A real mouthful, huh? Don't worry, it's completely safe."

"But what does it do?"

Jones' smile dropped. "I'm getting upset with all these questions. You told me you trusted me."

"I did tell you, but—"

"So trust me." The smile crawled back on his face.

After a long deliberation Arthur breathed out and reluctantly surrendered his arm. He yelped when Jones popped the needle into his upper arm. "Ouch!"

"My bad."

Arthur braced himself, taking a deep breath and wincing as Jones pushed the plunger. It burned like venom, fire and acid all at once. Arthur bit his lip, watching the solution swarm into his veins. It felt like forever until the depressor hit the bottom and was finally pulled out.

Anxious to get away, Arthur jumped to his feet. A rush of dizziness sent him him tipping sideways.

"Not so fast, kiddo." Jones laughed and caught him under the arms. He eased him back down. "I was about to say you'll experience a little vertigo." He straightened Arthur upright in his seat like a doll and crouched in front of him between his knees. "How do you feel?"

Arthur nodded, his neck drooping under the weight of his skull.

Jones laughed. "Give me words, Arthur."

Arthur sighed pleasantly. His muscle were liquified and he slumped bonelessly against the chair. He worked his mouth into forming the right shapes but his words came out loose and round. "Relaxed. I feel like all the clutter in my head has been cleared out."

"That sound like a good thing." Jones carded his fingers through his hair.

Arthur hummed, his heavy eyelids drooping in bliss as Jones's blunt nails ran across his scalp. Jones leaned in close on his injured side. "Next time I'll add something special." The wind of his breath tickled his ear.

Jones stood. "That's all for today."

Arthur blinked his eyes open and looked up. He absently took Jones' extended hand and let himself be led to the door.

"Keep an eye on your mood. Let me know if you feel any restlessness or twitching." Jones winked.

* * *

Arthur had to admit, the injection was nice. Unlike Dr. Jones, he was uneasy with the idea of using drugs to alter his mood but it did help take the edge off. It didn't make him feel happy but so much as it made him feel normal. He had forgotten what "normal" felt like.

As the days wore on and he fell into the routine of the ward, he was surprised to learn that Dr. Jones almost exclusively treated the patients in the schizophrenics ward. Arthur was a novelty to his practice. By then word of his offense was leaked and he fumed at how the patients drew up their speculations based upon that. He didn't hear much about Jones himself, however, the patients preferring to spend their gossip on the people in their immediate world, especially Dr. Edelstein.

Every patient had their opinion on Edelstein, some more lofty than others. Complaining about staff seemed to be a past-time amongst the patients. They even picked on the kind student nurse, Tino. Francis was quite sanctimonious in his calling Edelstein a hack, so far as he prided himself on outsmarting the psychiatrist from his treatment goals.

But everyone was afraid of Dr. Braginski, the hospital's head surgeon. Arthur had not met him. They said he preformed the invasive treatment, the last resort for patients who were either noncompliant or non-responsive to conventional medicine. Doctors who had deemed their patients beyond their level of skill or simply incorrigible referred them to him. When Braginski treated his patients, the effects were permanent. They were never the same again

"What exactly is Edelstein making you do?" Arthur shook his head as Francis dry heaved into a kidney dish. For the last twenty minutes Francis had been sitting on the side of his bed vomiting nonstop. There was nothing left to come up but sour bile. He wasn't so rude as to stare but the constant gags were making him nauseous.

When Arthur was taken off special observation, they put him in one of the six-bed dorm rooms. He ended up sharing a room with Francis and witnessed every therapy session with Edelstein concluded with Francis making a beeline to his room and straight for his kidney dish.

Francis groaned self-pityingly, finally tucking the dish under his cot. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and collapsed into his bed with his arms splayed out like a doll. "It is quite barbaric, what Edelstein does. He hooks me up to an IV, feeding me some chemical that makes me nauseous. He does this while showing images of men in homoerotic play." Arthur shifted uncomfortably. "Under normal circumstances, I would enjoy the show but the medicine takes quite the opposite effect. He has done this so many times that I don't even need the medicine to feel sick anymore. If Edelstein would have his way, I will have linked sex with sickness and will never again engage in indecent acts with men."

"That's... that's awful."

"Hm, well, that's just half of it."

"There's more?"

"Oh, indeed." Francis hummed, pulling back the covers and climbing in. "Edelstein then has me make love to women. Which, I confess, don't mind in the least. I enjoy all things beautiful, you see. He uses patients from the women's ward who are also deviants. It is part of their treatment plan, too."

"I can't believe that! That's mental!"

Francis threw his head back and laughed. "Have you forgotten where we are? Funny you, of all people, should say that."

"I don't care." Arthur pinched his strong brows together. "I say insanity is an act, not a person. You don't deserve it and neither do those women."

"Arthur, I'm touched." Francis winked. "But don't worry your pretty little head over me."

"Sod off. I wasn't worried," Arthur hissed and buried his face in his pillow. Not for the first time, he vowed never to speak to Francis again.

"In any case, there is no such thing as insanity," Francis said fluffing his pillow. He turned on his side, propping his cheek in his hand. "Not in the way doctors explain it, anyway. Sanity simply means how well you and I get along with everyone else. It's about fitting in with the rest of them. If you insult peoples' morals and offend their sensibilities, you end up in one of these places."

Arthur turned to face him. "But there are bad people in the world. You're telling me there is no such thing as evil?"

"I didn't say that." Francis' lips pursed delicately. "Are you--how do you say-- _daft_?" Arthur huffed, color creeping into his cheeks. "Evil exists, whether we acknowledge it or not. But I am not evil. Non, I am here because I am a social deviant. I don't fit in." His eyes glinted. "But they cannot change me, Arthur. I am who I am no matter what they do to me. You cannot change your true self, you can only change what other people see."

Arthur thought about his scar. There was no changing it and no avoiding people from seeing it. He would always be judged. People may not forgive your crime but they can forget your face. Not for him. No matter how well he fit in, everyone would always know what he did. The ugly white scar lashed across his face would remind everyone of the crimes they thought he committed. Society had already branded him as the deranged Kirkland boy who killed his family in a house fire. That condemnation would never die.

"But, do you know, Arthur," Francis' went on, his smooth voice lulling him into sleep, "there are also people who are insane who fit in all too well."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …you know, it broke my heart to have to dis-empower Alfred to the supporting role. BUT this is Arthur's story.
> 
> I don't necessarily agree or disagree with any of the characters' opinions on the field of psychology and psychiatric treatment. You'll notice many characters have their own strong opinions, some of them wildly contradictory to each other.
> 
> I may be in the minority but I hate when Sweden t'lks l'k' th's. Dude. In lieu of his Tohoku accent, fan-interpreted as w''rd' t'lk, I gave him truncated sentences..
> 
> Also I have no idea what Norway's Nyotalia name is, but "Lucy" is in fact Norway.
> 
> NHS National Health Service, Britain's healthcare system, financed by its citizens' taxes. The NHS was formed in the 1948, uniting all health services, including mental health, under one umbrella organization.
> 
> Lights out. Residential curfew. Everyone goes to bed at a designated time. Violation of this is grounds for consequences.
> 
> "He made me draw a clock." When you're admitted into psychiatric care you are given what is called an assessment test. It is a series of questions and observations determining how grounded you are to reality. They ask your name, the year, who the president is, etc. Drawing a clock is sometimes part of the test. I've seen some funky clocks.
> 
> One-on-one.. So this is when a staff member is tasked with monitoring a single patient at all times. This may include being present while they use the bathroom. This usually happens when the patient is a flight risk, a danger to themselves or to others.
> 
> Aversion therapy. Francis was very simplistic in his explanation but I hope I put the point across. Aversion therapy was used to "treat" homosexuality and is sadly still implemented today in "gay affirmative psychotherapy". For what it's worth, most organizations, including the American Psychiatric Association (that publishes the DSMs), consider aversion therapy as treatment for homosexuality immoral and ineffective. If anyone's read or seen Clockwork Orange, the protagonist underwent aversion therapy to curb his violent behavior. I honestly don't know if hospitals made opposite-sex patients screw each other as treatment but I got the idea from researching the Nazi experimentations. And American Horror Story.
> 
> "I fell into a forbidden love." Homosexuality was outlawed in England until 1964. During the time of the fic, you weren't at risk for hanging but you were prosecuted by law. In the 1940s-50s, it was practically a witch hunt. In lieu of prison, some offenders chose to undergo hormonal treatment, rendering them impotent and circumstantially causing gynecomastia (breast growth). Possibly the most tragically well-known of these victims was Alan Turing, who played a massive role in defeating the Nazis.
> 
> Chlorpromazine hydrocloride. Commercially-released under the name of Thorazine in the US, Largactil in the UK. It is an anti-psychotic (I won't go into all of that). It is famously used to treat schizophrenia. However, high doses typically prescribed to them may results in side effects similar to Parkinson's. In lower doses it can be used to treat nausea, anxiety, migraines and all that good stuff with no side effects whatsoever. It is administered intramuscularly at the doctor's office, or you can do it at home.
> 
> "I, on the other hand, am bringing in a whole new era of psychiatric treatment." Piggybacking on the previous note, the introduction of chlorpromazine largely replaced electroconvulsive therapy, hydrotherapy, etc. It made a huge impact on the history of psychiatric hospitalization.
> 
> A new vegetative (autonomic) stabilizer by H. Laborit. H. Labroit synthesized chlorpromazine hydrocloride. The article was one of his first publications on it. I didn't read the article myself (too lazy) but I think he is referring to the previously-used promethazine/pethidine which Labroit described as "sedation without narcosis." Also a really creepy title.


End file.
